All These Things That I've Done
by ItsADuckStupid
Summary: I had a brother once. His name was James, and he died at the age of twenty four.' [Another DaniHolly Alias Fic. Prepare for madness.]
1. Prologue

**All These Things That I've Done**

By: Dani (Glittering Pegasus) and Holly (Duck)

Summary: I had a brother once. His name was James, and he died at the age of twenty-four.

A/N: We may be slightly insane for starting yet another alias fic together, but we have fun. To our great surprise we actually finished AtD, so here's hoping we finish this one too. Our take on Before the Flood.

* * *

"_All These Things That I've Done" by the Killers_

_When there's nowhere else to run  
Is there room for one more son  
One more son  
If you can hold on  
If you can hold on, hold on  
I wanna stand up, I wanna let go  
You know, you know - no you don't, you don't  
I wanna shine on in the hearts of men  
I want a meaning from the back of my broken hand _

Another head aches, another heart breaks  
I am so much older than I can take  
And my affection, well it comes and goes  
I need direction to perfection, no no no no

_And when there's nowhere else to run  
Is there room for one more son  
These changes ain't changing me  
The cold-hearted boy I used to be_

_Over and out, last call for sin  
While everyone's lost, the battle is won  
With all these things that I've done  
All these things th__at I've done_

_

* * *

_

**Prologue**

For the past fifteen years I've gone by someone else's name, written someone else's checks, used someone else's gym pass. Lived someone else's life. I thought it would be radically different, that I would see the world through new eyes, be seen with different perspective, but I've found after all these years that the difference is merely the first name I use. I have always been seen this way, in this particular light, and my vision is only a little bit sharper than it used to be.

So it wasn't really a wonder when I started to lose myself in the part, when I started to blur deceit and reality. Maybe I'd never really been anyone else; maybe I'd always been Michael Vaughn. Perhaps that other person didn't exist; perhaps my brain had created him as means to hide the loneliness I'd felt after my father's death. You hear about those things happening all the time, except I know that's not the case. That's not the reason I don't like to talk about my past, and it's not why it took me a long time to identify with the phrase "only child."

It's not why she never feels right calling me Michael.

As Michael Vaughn, I tell them this: I had a brother once. His name was James, and he died at the age of twenty-four.

What I don't tell them is that I killed him by committing suicide.


	2. Chapter One

**Chapter One**

Pain.

Not really surprising, as the past four years have accumulated in many _ohshit im returning to consciousness _moments, ending in a hospital visit or a very nasty looking cell. He has a fifty-fifty chance of waking up safe, so he keeps his eyes shut until he determines that the material underneath his fingertips is indeed standard hospital sheet cloth, starchy and smelling of antibiotics. Safe.

Someone is coming, so he relaxes, hoping the painkillers are coming. As the blackness becomes absolute, he praises modern medicine and lets the numbness wash over him in comforting waves.

Some indeterminate time later, his eyes open in a panic. The fluorescent lights hurt, and he blinks until he can make out the shapes around him. Medical equipment. _Shit._ Did he borrow Michael's motorcycle and crash it? He was going to get his ass kicked if he harmed the Harley. There's no one in the room with him, so he can only assume Mike doesn't know yet, hasn't stormed in with rage and worry in his identical green eyes. As much as they don't get along, he knows his brother as well as he knows himself. Mike would never allow him to forget it, but he'd only yell because he was worried too.

He dug far into his mind, trying to recall the events that had brought him here. He couldn't remember borrowing a motorcycle… he remembered a car. _Fuck!_ He'd crashed Michael's car! Totaled it, even. Now he'd never see the light of day again, it was only a matter of time before his brother barged in and ripped the IV out of his arm and-

"Oh, you're awake! You had us worried, Michael. How are you feeling this morning?" a woman's voice abruptly ends his hysteria.

Michael. Oh. Right.

He was Michael now.

"Um… I'm ok…."

And then it all comes to him in a rush. Santa Barbara, Sydney, eloping, the beginning of his confession, the crash. Oh god, Sydney!

She smiles. "Good to hear. You were in quite a state when you were brought in. Would you like me to explain your injuries or-"

"Excuse me- where is Sydney, my fiancé? The woman who came in with me-"

"Yes, I know. She's in the room next to this one. Her physical injuries were less extensive than yours, but she hasn't yet fully regained conciseness. We believe this is just a result of shock she mostly likely suffered during the crash. Her condition is stable, however, and we have every reason to believe she'll make a full and swift recovery."

He sighs and nods. "Thank you." The nurse smiles again, and leaves quietly with his chart.

Now that he's established the what, where, and when, he just has to figure out the who. Who he is, who he's going to be to Sydney, the unconscious woman only a room away that will no doubt be pissed at him when she wakes up. Will she see him in a different light? Can she love him despite the deceit?

It isn't that he's been hiding from her, or anyone else for that matter. He's been hiding from himself for fifteen long years, convincing himself that his name is Michael C. Vaughn, Boy Scout, proud American, and all around good guy. Not that the real Michael Vaughn ever was any of those things, in fact, his brother had a dark side that even he had trouble stomaching. But that is beside the point.

Sydney. He needs to worry about Sydney. His plan was to spill it at once, where she was cornered, and make her listen to the entire story. Now she only has "My name isn't Michael Vaughn" and some broken ribs. He'll be lucky to see her dust cloud as she runs as fast away from him as she can. And she sprinted in college. _Fuck._

The nurse returns a moment later with a paper in one hand and a serum in the other. "Meds time," she announces.

He turns away as the needle enters his skin. "So… could you tell me my injuries now?"

She nods and throws away the serum, then looks down at her paper. "Well, Agent Vaughn, the accident did somewhat of a number on you. And it seems you have an extensive history of injury so I'm just going to give this to you straightforward. You've suffered a mild concussion. Your left arm is broken; you may have noticed the bandaging."

He hadn't. Now he does.

"In addition, your right light is fractured, which is why it's elevated. Finally, four of your ribs are broken. One of them snapped inwardly, causing what is called a hemothorax. It punctured your lung, filling it with blood. You underwent surgery to drain the blood after you were brought in."

He takes a moment to take all this in before asking hoarsely, "How long have I been here?"

She glances at her watch. "Would be about… 44 hours now."

Two days. No doubt Jack was sitting in Sydney's room, glaring at the nurses every time they looked at his daughter's charts, cursing him to hell and imagining which torture devices would inflict the most pain. And he'd thought Sydney was going to be hard to talk to…he'd have to tell Jack what happened while he was dodging bullets.

Nadia is in a hospital bed too, he remembers. Not a good week for Irina's daughters.

"Can I see Sydney?" he asks, eyes wide. He needs to at least see that she's alive, touch her to make sure she's still there. "Please?" He realized a long time ago the dependency he has on Sydney's well being and doesn't try to fight it. The nurse's eyes are sympathetic, but he can tell she's going to say no. Fucking hospital rules.

"I'm sorry, not today. With all your injuries, we can't risk moving you for at least a couple days." She pats his unbroken arm softly. "She'll be fine, don't you worry. We're taking good care of her."

Days.

Suddenly a coma doesn't sound all that bad. Blissful darkness.

Days.

_TBC.._


	3. Chapter Two

**Chapter Two**

"Get that shit eating grin off your face, James Vaughn! Just because you know kicked all our asses on that exam doesn't mean you have to rub it in," grumbled Josh, good naturedly, punching James in the arm as they left their classroom, both exhausted from the three hours of testing they'd just completed.

"Hey," James retorted, "If I did well, its because I studied. Unlike others," he grinned. "Just how much tequila did you drink last night, anyway?"

Josh rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. "Too much. I dunno…I lost count after we started playing that ping-pong game. I kept losing. You missed a good time, buddy."

"I'm sure," James said, turning on his pager. 'Good luck' appeared on the little screen, followed by Erin's number. His grin got bigger. Good thing he hadn't looked at it before the exam. He never would have been able to concentrate.

"Aww, whosat, Jamesy?"

"Shut up, man." But the grin didn't go away.

"Aw, it's heeeer, isn't it?" Josh nudged his friend.

"Grow up, would you?" James smirked. "And stop knocking my love life to feel better about the impossibility of having one of your own."

Josh put a hand over his heart. "That hurt. Really, it did, Jimmy."

"Don't call me Jimmy."

"Whatever. I hate to leave you when we're having such a thought provoking conversation, but I've got another class to get to. Later."

"Bye, man."

James shook his head and started back for his apartment As soon as he reached his room, he swung his too-heavy bag onto a chair and flopped down on the couch. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the light of his answering machine blinking. Slightly agitated at having to accomplish such an arduous task in his drained state, he slowly rolled over and hit the 'play' button.

"Salut, James. C'est ta mere. Ca va? Alors, je vais juste le dis; je suis inquiet au ton frere… s'il tu plait, appeles moi. Je voudrais te parles. T'aime."

Beeeep.

He cursed inwardly. "Worried about your brother" always meant "Find out what's wrong and then report back to me so I can fix it." His mother always relied on James to find out what was wrong with Michael, since his darling twin brother never called home unless it was a holiday or he needed something. In the six years since they'd graduated high school, they'd drifted so far apart James wasn't even sure what was going on in Michael's life, and he knew that Mike sure as hell didn't care about his life.

They went the same law school, and saw each other maybe once a month. James pressed his face into his pillow in anger, imagining how disappointed his dad would be at their nonexistent relationship. They were twins, for god sake; most twins had some sort of connection, but theirs had been lost long ago, stemming, James guessed, from their father's death. They'd handled it so differently, James attaching himself to his mother and Michael pushing everyone away, bitter and inconsolable.

"Damnit," he whispered, punching the bed in frustration. Erin had mentioned something about going to a bar tonight after his exam, and that sounded a thousand times more appealing than confronting his brother. Michael could wait another day before his twin brother psychoanalyzed him. He was going to have fun.

"Hey, Jamesy? I wanna go dancing. Can we go dancing?"

He smirked down at the girl his arm was looped around. "Erin, dancing is the last thing we should be doing right now."

"Aw, why not? I won't get sick, really. I didn't drink all that much," she protested, her blue eyes glinting with a mixture of amusement and the buzz she was denying.

"Ok," he smiled slyly as he stopped in front of his apartment building. "How bout we do some dancing right here at my lovely abode?"

She raised her eyebrows seductively, as if visualizing the suggestion for an easier decision then lowered them and shook her head. "Nah… I want real dancing."

He'd had a couple beers at the bar, but the lightheaded feeling he had wasn't from alcohol. Still smiling, he turned her to face him and put her hands on his shoulders. "Let's practice first," he said, reaching for her waist. She leaned into him, and they swayed gently from side to side.

Two months and going strong. He'd be damned if he ever got that grin off his face. Erin sighed into his jacket. She whispered, "This is nice," and snuggled deeper into his chest. "Can we just stay like this forever?"

He held her a little tighter, too engrossed in her to notice the black van across the street that had been there all day, and he would fail to notice the taps installed in his phones for the next several days.

Two days ended up going by before James finally couldn't handle the guilt anymore. Had he always done everything his mother told him to do? Apparently it was an inescapable trait burned within him.

He pondered this for a moment as he listened to the phone ring on the other end. On the forth ring, an all too familiar voice answered, a voice he heard every time he himself spoke, differentiated only by the roughness of tone, the lack of warmth that James's voice had always carried.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Mike?"

"James. This makes the third call in two semesters. To what do I owe this pleasure?"

He sighed. "I have to talk to you about something."

"And here I thought phones were created for decoration."

"Mike, I'm serious. Can you come by for a little while?"

Pause.

"Yeah. Looking forward to hearing Amelie's latest frustrations of my existence. Be there in an hour."

Closing his eyes, James sighed as he set the phone down in its holder. This whole conversation was going to blow, big time. His good mood from finishing exams and spending time with Erin was evaporating far too quickly, and it was going to be shot to hell by the time he was done talking to Mike. He'd been mediating between Amelie and Mike for too long, and he swore this was going to be the last time he gave into his mother. Mike didn't appreciate it, and he hated doing it.

When the buzzer finally rang, he steeled himself. No point in getting his hopes up for an easy conversation.

Mike had neutral expression on his face, something he'd never had before he graduated high school. His moods had always been in extremes, so much to the point that his mother had him go to a therapist. James had been dragged along on that one so his brother didn't feel isolated. Apparently being a twin meant you had the same mental problems as well.

"Hey," James said awkwardly, moving aside so Michael could come in. His twin only nodded. "So," he stalled, "want something to drink?"

Michael walked further inside and sat down on the couch. "Let's cut the pleasantries, James. What does our mother want?"

His tone sent shivers down James' spine. Had he always been this cold? He remembered a time when they were inseparable.

He remembered a time when their biggest confrontations came from who got which color of the matching outfits Amelie would buy for them. He tried to shake it off.

"She's worried about you, Michael. And frankly, I'm beginning to feel the same way."

He scoffed. "Worried about me?"

"Yes. Amelie may not be your favorite person right now, for whatever reason, but she still loves you. And the last thing she needs is to lose you the same way we lost Dad."

He looked at James hard and for a second, James thought, maybe, Michael was thinking about it. But when had he ever been right?

"Screw you."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" As many times as they'd gotten into fights recently, it rarely escalated this quickly, or without reason.

"Come on, you're believing that bullshit? If our mother is worried, it's because she doesn't want the guilt of having her son's blood on her hands along with her husband's."

James felt a pang of quick anger shoot through his veins. "…What?"

"She let him go, she never stopped him, never tried. He's dead. Need I make it any more clear for you?"

Looking over his brother carefully, James found no apparent signs of insanity, other than the dark, almost bruise like circles under his eyes, but surely, surely, Michael was suffering from some sort of mental strain. Their mother, the woman who had refused to even look at other men since their father's death, who had cried herself to sleep for years, guilty of murder? It was fucking ridiculous. "You're crazy, you know that?" James finally said, rubbing the dimple in his chin. "You need help."

"Well, you won't have to worry about it much longer," Michael spat, standing up quickly, "I'm going to CST in four days."

The term sounded vaguely familiar, but he couldn't put his finger on it. "CST? What the fuck is that?"

"Clandestine Service Training. I'm joining the CIA. You remember what the CIA is right?" said Michael, "Central Intelligence Agency—"

"Yes, I know what that is, you dumbass!" James yelled, pushing Michael backwards, "You hate the CIA! What the hell do you think you're doing?"

Pushing James back, harder, he gritted, "I'm going to find out who killed our father, Jimmy."

James flushed. "Don't call me Jimmy."

Michael grabbed hold of James' collar. "Don't you ever wonder who was responsible? No justice was ever served, because of the fucking red tape and classified stamps all over his files! We deserve to at least know why we didn't have our father growing up, don't you think, Jimmy?"

"It won't make it any easier, Mike," James muttered, releasing himself from Michael's grasp and stepping backwards. "You're never gonna find what you're looking for at the CIA, bro."

"Thank you, Dr. Vaughn. Now if you'll excuse me, I have some packing to do," Michael walked past James, turning as he opened the door. "Oh, you'll tell our mother? I won't be able to call for awhile." He smiled, sending more shivers down James' spine. "See you around, Jimmy."

The door slammed close, and James gripped the back of the couch with white knuckles. He never thought Michael could go off the deep end so hard, or with such conviction. Closing his eyes, he felt a wave of sadness wash over him, leaving a startling truth in its wake; his brother Mike was now completely gone, replaced by Michael Vaughn, a man searching for catharsis in all the wrong places.


	4. Chapter Three

**Chapter Three**

The next morning, Vaughn wakes up feeling a little better than the morning before. Like he'd maybe only been hit by a minivan rather than a truck.

His head is still pounding, but he is almost certain it's not a result of the accident, but the result of the memories that had bombarded him while he slept.

He lets out a short groan upon remembering and tries to ignore the sudden noise at the door.

"Whoa, buddy, you look terrible."

He's not sure whether to perk up or try even harder to ignore it when he recognizes the voice of his best friend. He decides to try a smile. It almost helps.

"Thanks, Eric."

"How're you feeling?" Weiss asks, coming to sit beside his friend.

Vaughn smirks and gestures to the overworked morphine drip. "I wouldn't really know."

Weiss laughs and nods for a moment before sobering to initiate the inevitable. "So, um… I saw Sydney earlier."

Vaughn tries to keep from visibly squirming, choosing instead to play the mock-defensive card. "You visited her before me? I'm insulted."

"Don't try that with me, you were out cold," Weiss plays along. Briefly. "Mike… I know something happened. Besides the accident, I mean. She wouldn't tell me what, but I'd like to think I'm in tune enough with your twisted relationship by now to know…. Plus, she wasn't wearing her ring."

Ouch.

Vaughn had expected nothing less from Sydney, but hearing the words still feels like another van crushing through him at 75 miles per hour. Surely they'd endured enough to survive this as well, after all, she'd done the same thing to the people she loved, deceived more people than he cared to count. She'd be a hypocrite to turn him away now.

"So," he continues, interrupting Vaughn's train of thought, "what's going on, man?"

"Uh. I need to talk to her first, I think," he stalls, rubbing his chin with his fingers. The IV tube pulls at his hand, and he winces. God he hates hospitals. Aside from the safety factor, the smell is unbearable, and the paper gowns are downright uncomfortable, although he appreciates that no one had worn his gown before. Small favors. Eric is frowning at him. Better say something to shut the man up. "She's overreacting, man. I said something stupid and was about to elaborate when another car did a somersault through my window. Talk about bad timing." He smiles at his friend. "Don't worry about it. We always forgive each other in the end."

Eric just rolls his eyes. "If you say so. I'd hate to be in the room when this conversation takes place though. You've got some serious begging to do, my man."

Vaughn turns his eyes up towards the ceiling and sighs. Good humored as he may be, Weiss is completely right. The question now is, will serious begging be good enough?

"Did they say when I could get out of this bed, Weiss?"

Weiss shrugs. "I'm not sure, man, but I think you've got at least a few more days. You have three broken ribs and a broken leg, among various other injuries. I understand I'm talking to the man I once helped to escape from his hospital with a punctured lung, but I highly recommend you take it easy for a while on this one."

"I have to talk to her, Eric."

"No, you _had_ to save her life in Palmero. This, buddy, is not a life or death situation. So you will be holding no guns to my head this time. Sorry."

"Hey," Eric continues, seeing his friend's distress, "You're probably right. She likes you too much to kill you, buddy."

Vaughn's laugh is only slightly amused. "I don't think she likes me too much right now. But I know she loves me, and that's gotta be enough." His eyelids start drooping of their own volition, and suddenly it's very hard to talk. "I think I'm falling asleep," he murmurs, but he doesn't hear a response. Thank god for medication.


End file.
